Crowned by Fire (6 page)

“
Black water?” said the witch. He was still sitting far too close to her. “Dragons?”

Catherine sat up a little, putting distance between them. “You don't have to like it.”

Cassandra's tawny eyebrows knit themselves together as she watched them. A new thought was blossoming on her face, like a flower opening up to the sun. Catherine wondered what it could possibly be; the seer was almost as skilled at hiding her emotions as her half-brother. Even though she had been oozing fear earlier, the space around her body was now quietly empty.

Her eyes went from her to the witch, and back again. “What did the man look like?”

“Um—tall. Black hair. Dark, almost black eyes,” Catherine lied, describing David.

The seer looked at her for a very long time. “Are you sure?”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Catherine retorted.

The witch scoffed, as though he held her mendacity to be a gospel truth unworthy of deliberation. “What do your scriptures say about readings like this?”

“Like I said, I'm not permitted to reveal that information. You know that.”

The witch's lips formed a thin, hard line. But he didn't argue, for once.

Catherine did. “You can't tell me what it means?” she said incredulously. “Why?”

Cassandra dusted off her sweats. “As I said before, there are constraints. One of them is that I'm not allowed to influence the future.”

Catherine thought that was a pretty shitty arrangement. What was the point? “It expressly says that somewhere?”

“
No. But bad things happen when I do. So I don't. Not anymore.” She paused. “I'm sure you're exhausted from driving all night. You're welcome to stay in the guestrooms upstairs. We usually have dinner around six. I'll call Dad and let him know you're here.”

This last bit was aimed at the witch, who looked at her with a frown.

“He'll need time to get used to the idea,” Cassandra told him tightly.

“
Your lifespans aren't even close to long enough for that to happen.”

“
Yeah, well, some advanced notice still might have helped,” Cassandra snapped. Then she caught herself. “Finn will show you your room,” she said to Catherine, in a civil tone. “Excuse me.” And with that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into one of the many rooms without saying goodbye. Probably to call her father, as she'd said.

“
This place…is huge,” Catherine murmured.

“
Maybe to you,” said the witch.

Catherine turned. “Really,” she said, allowing her skepticism to shape the word.

“Don't you know who I am?”

“
I know what you
are
,” she said. “That's enough. Trust me.”

But then she remembered her mother stiffly bowing to the witch in her kitchen and wondered. But it was too late. The witch was ascending the staircase two at a time, forcing her to run like a little dog to keep up. By the time she got to the top she was annoyed—until she looked up, and then her breath caught.

A large crystal chandelier hung in front of the glass window. On the other side of the glass the sun was setting in the sky and the rosy light of the sun shone through the prisms, creating shimmering patterns that looked like the aurora borealis.

Light from the chandelier dappled her skin. When she held out her wrists to examine them, they were speckled like a leopard's. She looked out the window, high enough that she could only see the treetops from the front yard, and felt a fleeting sense of joy.

“Your room is on the right,” the witch said, breaking into her thoughts. Reluctantly, she tore her eyes away from the light display and followed his finger.

“
Thanks,” Catherine said flatly.

“
Mine is on the left,” he continued. “We share the bathroom. I suggest opening the windows. The second floor isn't used much.”

He went into his own room then, giving her a chance to explore. The guest room was small, cramped, and musty, like it hadn't been used for a while. She could detect very faint traces of perfume—something strong and powdery, like something an older woman would wear. Every available surface was dripping with dust-covered lace. A desk pushed against the far wall housed an impressive collection of snow globes.

Catherine turned her attention to the other two doors in the room. One led out to a small enclosed balcony, where a cactus sat, looking dejected and lonely in a cobwebbed corner. The other was a closet, mostly empty. There were a few old dresses inside that bore the same lingering odor of perfume as her room. Hadn't Cassandra mentioned a grandmother? This must have been her bedroom.

Catherine dumped the sack with the Grimmoire and her clothes on the bed, expelling the breath she'd been holding in. then she coughed. Well. However awkward this was, it was better than sleeping in the street—or in the car.

In the next room, Catherine heard the water run. The witch was taking a shower. She was in sore need of one herself. After last night, she imagined that she probably smelled like a crime scene. She hoped there would still be hot water left when he was done.

With a sigh, she yanked open the drapes. A mistake. Clouds of dust wafted into the air. She coughed, waving the clouds away from her face. The sun had fallen lower on the horizon, a deep ruby that stained her hands the color of blood.

The water stopped. In the next room, a door slammed.

Finally.

Catherine took her own shower, no longer able to stand the stench of dried blood or the sensation of greasy hair clinging to her neck and scalp. She pulled on jeans and a camisole, with a long-sleeved shirt worn unbuttoned over it. As she tied her hair back into a loose bun, she thought about her parents.

What were they doing right now? Were they on the run, too? Would she ever find out? Not knowing was starting to seem a lot more painful than knowing. She needed closure.

A knock sounded at her door, and she saw her eyes widen in the mirror. She walked to the door and opened it, surprised to see Cassandra standing there. “Yes?”

“
I just wanted to let you know that dinner will be ready soon.”

“
Thank you.”

“
You're welcome.” Cassandra looked a little wan. Was that because of the reading? Or had her father belittled her for the witch's presence? The seer's green eyes flicked towards the bathroom and she bit her lip. “Is he in?” she asked quietly.

He can't hear you
, Catherine wanted to say. His ears were no more refined than any mere human's; there was no need to tiptoe around him with such caution. Anyway, he didn't deserve it. “He should be,” she said neutrally. “I heard him get out of the shower.”

Used up all the hot water, too. The bastard.

Cassandra closed her eyes. For a moment, she looked very tired and impossibly old. Catherine had a vision of what she would look like fifty years from now; it wasn't pleasant. “He locked me out and isn't answering the door.”

The thought of being locked out of her own home by an interloper filled Catherine with fury on the other girl's behalf. She glanced at his door without enthusiasm. “Let me guess. You want me to get him for you?”

Cassandra's expression brightened so much that Catherine almost felt guilty. “Would you?”

Fuck
. “Yeah, all right. Fine.” She closed the door and leaned back against it, pinching the bridge of her nose.
He's just a witch. Like any other.

Not quite like any other. He was a good deal more powerful than most witches. She had watched him turn silver into liquid, nightmares into reality.

Now she was annoyed at herself for showing fear. She stormed up to the bathroom, rolling up her sleeves. “Witch!” She pounded on his door. “Open up the—”

It swung open the moment her fist made contact with the paneled wood.

“Door,” she said weakly, taking a slight step back.

The witch was standing in the doorway, with his usual expression of scorn. He was toweling off his still-damp hair. He was wearing jeans, the chatelaine of potions lashed through the loops and—she swallowed—no shirt.

With his chest bare, he looked even more dangerous. Lean and lightly muscled, he moved as lithely as a jaguar, causing the vials at his waist to shudder with movement as he shifted his weight to one hip. He had hair on his chest—not a lot, but more than she would expect. She had to look away from the line disappearing into his pants. Predator stirred a little, blinking her eyes sleepily, and wasn't at all displeased by what she saw.

He was studying her just as intently. Muscles in his arms bunched as he wadded up the towel and tossed it aside. When he turned away, she noticed the front of his jeans bulged oddly, baring the zipper track of his fly, and she wondered, with a start, if it was because he had an erection.

“What are you doing in my bedroom, shifter mine?”

Catherine's mouth went dry. She slammed an imaginary cage door in her mind, locking Predator away. “Looking for you.” The witch—and his errant cock—were none of her concern.

The witch raised one of his auburn eyebrows—they were the same color as the hair on his chest. “Is that right.”

“
Cassandra said to call you down for dinner. That's real classy, by the way, locking her out of her own house.
Hey
.” He had let his eyes slide from hers and was looking around, doing his best to ignore her as obviously as possible. Her temper flared. “Hey!”

The witch turned, his nostrils flaring a little. “I thought we were done here.”

His cool dismissal stung more than it should have. “Well, we're
not
. What happens now? We've seen your half-sister. She's told my fortune.”

He frowned. “I don't know.” He glanced away from her again, apparently intent on ignoring her.

Catherine snapped her fingers to reclaim his attention. “What's your problem?”

“
I'm thinking,” he said. “You said you can see auras?”

She blinked, thrown by this apparent non-sequitur. “Yes. I told you that.”

“And you said that all shifters can do it.”

It wasn't a question the way he said it. Not quite. He was obviously probing for information to support an assumption he had already made. But for what? And why?

Carefully, Catherine said, “All the shifters I know.”

“
Your family?”

“
Yes, my family.”

This answer finally seemed to satisfy him, because he nodded, although the frown hadn't left his face and he still looked troubled. “Hmm.”

Asshole. He was goading her on purpose. Impatient now, as well as annoyed, she said, “Why do you want to know?”

The witch shrugged and stepped away from her. His sides flexed as he did, and she was angry at herself for noticing, for looking. He mistook her snort for impatience; when he turned around, his face was hard. “Your reaction to Cassandra's reading was strange. I was merely curious.”

“What do you mean, strange?”

“
As she said, it isn't supposed to hurt. But were picking up on her readings. You read her mind as she read your future.” The witch's eyes narrowed and she made a small sound when he slammed his hand against the wall behind her. “Weren't you?”

“
I—I'm not sure.” She wished he was wearing a shirt.

“
I am.” He leaned in, his hand curling into a fist as he bore his weight on that arm. “It's just as I've been telling you all along. There is witch blood in your veins. You can no longer deny it. The proof is everywhere.”

It made sense. Too much sense. But she couldn't accept it. To do so meant death. She shook her head
furiously. “You're
wrong
.”

“
You can stop pretending,” he said. “I knew you for what you were the moment I saw the way that black magic reacted to your body.” He ran his fingers down her arm. “If I were going to turn you in, I would have done so already.”

“
Get out of my way,” she said numbly. “I'll get angry.”

“
What are you going to do, Catherine?” And the possessive way he said her name made her spine tingle. He never called her by name, not if he could help it. “If you try to hurt me, you hurt only yourself.”

She grabbed onto his arm and he flinched, but not before she got a glimpse of the full spectrum of his emotions—jagged shards of anger, small burrs of fear, white-hot lust, and something else; something so wrapped up in resentment and self-loathing that she only got the faintest glimpse. But whatever it was, it was enough to scare her.

The witch jerked back as if she'd burned him—and in a way, perhaps she had. “What was that?” he demanded. “What did you just do?”

Catherine shook her head helplessly.

“You did something. I
felt
it.”

“
I don't know,” she whispered. “I don't know what I did
.
”

The witch growled in frustration. Sometime during this invasive inspection he had moved closer. Close enough that she could see the starry flecks of yellow that flared like sunbursts in his cat-like eyes, and the grim resolve in the set of his jaw.